


Pizza And Antelope

by TheseusInTheMaze



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Body Worship, Incest, Introspection, M/M, Pining, Pizza Discourse, Rambling Conversations, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-20 21:02:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18533107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheseusInTheMaze/pseuds/TheseusInTheMaze
Summary: Erik and T'Challa talk about fast food... among other things.





	Pizza And Antelope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BabaTunji](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabaTunji/gifts).



T'Challa was not, as some would think, a blushing virgin of a man. Oh, certainly, he didn't get around the way some other young men did - a lot of potential lovers were faintly off put by his bodyguards, and he was... well, alright, there were people in the world who were better at being personable (versus diplomatic), but still. He'd had lovers before. He'd had his share of intimate moments with people, sexual and otherwise, and he liked to think that he more or less knew what he was doing. 

But Erik left him flustered.

Flustered was the only way to put it, wasn't it? He'd try to put on some kind of charm, the way he had when he was younger and trying to win over someone prickly, and Erik had laughed in his face. Maybe it was a cultural thing. Wakandan people and Americans had different ways of attracting partners, different ways of showing interest, different everything. So really, maybe it made sense that everything was such a mess.

Erik didn't seem put off by the whole "cousin" thing, which helped - maybe he'd learned enough about Wakandan beliefs in regards to such things. Or maybe Erik just didn't care. 

Nakia found it hilarious, but of course she did. T'Challa had long ago resigned himself to the fact that all the women in his life took delight in his suffering. At least they bailed him out when he was too over his head. Admittedly, his idea of "in over his head" and everyone else's idea of "in over his head" were two different things, but... he was still alive, wasn't he?

Although sometimes he wasn't sure quite how long that would last, from the look that Erik was shooting him. The two of them were sitting at a sidewalk cafe, eating lunch, and T'Challa was trying to make conversation. "Trying" being the operative word in this case, judging by the monosyllabic answers and the looks that Erik kept shooting him.

"So," T'Challa said, after an awkward pause of almost three minutes, "how are you enjoying settling into Wakanda?" 

"You mean since you let me out of prison?" Erik's tone was flat, and his eyes were steely as he met T'Challa's gaze.

T'Challa's stomach twisted up. "Right," he said, and he cleared his throat. "I meant since then, yes."

"I've been liking it," Erik allowed. "Y'all wouldn't know a good pizza if it bit you, but I've found that to be true of most places."

"Where do you think one might find the best pizza?" This was a safe topic of conversation, right? T'Challa had never really... understood American's infatuation with pizza. It was... fine, but there were so many other things in life that were _equally_ delicious, and a lot harder to get wrong. He had eaten some in America - when it was bad it tasted like soggy cardboard. Still. 

"That is a question for the ages," Erik said, and now his expression was almost dreamy, as he gazed out at the bustling street around them. "I've always liked Chicago pizza."

"What is the difference between Chicago pizza and other kinds of pizza?" T'Challa took a drink of water, trying not to look too closely at the line of Erik's profile. 

Erik snorted, looking sidelong at T'Challa, a look that said... something, but T'Challa couldn't interpret it. "Are you telling me that you've been surveying the whole world around here, and you never even caught on to the arguments about Chicago pizza versus Brooklyn pizza?"

"I never knew that debates about food were quite so important," T'Challa said dryly.

"I forgot," Erik said, and now his voice had a sour note. "You Wakandans are above petty shit like that."

"Oh," T'Challa said, "I never said that. But I am curious - what separates Chicago pizza from all the other kinds of pizza?" It helped to keep Erik talking on a neutral subject - he seemed to relax, when he spoke of simpler times. 

"Chicago pizza is thick," he said, holding his fingers apart. "It's got the sauce on the top, the cheese underneath it."

"I thought that pizza had the cheese on top," said T'Challa. He hadn't realized there were so many variations on pizza. 

"It usually does, except when it's Chicago pizza," Erik said. "That's why a lot of people aren't so into it."

"It certainly sounds different from the pizza that I have experience with," T'Challa agreed.

"What kind of pizza have you had?" Erik arched an eyebrow, and somehow managed to sound like he was inviting T'Challa to a duel, like something out of the old novels from England and France and Germany that his father liked to read. He was reminded of that, out of the blue - sitting in his father's lap, squinting down at the English words and a big picture of a man on a rearing white horse, with a big floppy hat with a feather in it. He wanted to ask Erik about that - about what kinds of books he'd read, about his memories of his childhood, about the books he'd read. But every topic seemed to be a veritable minefield. 

“I’ve had Wakandan pizza,” T’Challa said, “although I think that it is very different from American pizza.”

“American pizza usually doesn’t have shit like antelope on it,” Erik agreed.

“I’ve also had New York pizza,” T’Challa continued, “when I was staying at the UN. My father and I were told we should sample the local cuisine.” 

“New York pizza is too thin,” Erik said, and he sounded like he was making a pronouncement from on high. “Not enough toppings, and too greasy.”

“I did find it very greasy,” T’Challa agreed. _Look at us, having a conversation_.

“What about other American fast food?” Erik was resting his elbows on the table now, his chin in his hands. “I ain’t seen a single McDonalds around here.”

“I’ve never had McDonalds,” said T’Challa. “I do remember seeing the ads for it, when I was in New York.”

“When would you have a chance to see ads? Weren’t you and your dad riding around in a limo?” There was that hostility again. 

"We went around the city, a little bit," said T'Challa. "Of course, we had bodyguards -"

"Of course," Erik said, and his voice was still sour. 

T'Challa bit back acidic replies, angry ones. Erik was angry. He had every right to be angry - T'Challa himself was still angry about it, angry and sad about the waste of it all. But the past was the past, and now was now. He wanted to help Erik, he wanted to become closer to his cousin he wanted...

He wanted to kiss Erik, he wanted to run his hands along the scars of Erik's arms, Erik's belly, Erik's _everything_.

Was this a crush? Was it some sort of guilt complex coming out in a new, exciting ways? He liked to think that he was a man who knew himself well, but he kept tripping up over Erik, and he wasn't sure what to do with that. Maybe that was why he was drawn to Erik in the first place.

Erik sighed, and he leaned back in his chair, his feet planted on the floor, his arms crossed across his chest. There was a small bit of sauce on his cheek, and T'Challa's fingers itched to wipe it off.

"My dad used to talk about how beautiful Wakanda was. Is." Erik looked faintly wistful, and T'Challa hadn't even realized that was an expression that Erik could wear. "He hadn't mentioned all the people."

"We do have a lot of people," T'Challa agreed, and he winced internally. That was an awkward thing to say. 

"I'm glad I got to see it," Erik said, and his tone was heavy.

T'Challa looked over at him, and he kept his hands in his lap. Years of diplomatic training kept him from reaching over and taking Erik's hand, but it was his first impulse. "I am glad as well," he told Erik.

Erik sighed - a long, deep sigh - and he leaned back in his chair, his head tilting back. "This is never gonna be my home," he said. No question, no reproach, just a simple statement of fact. He seemed to know it in his bones. “I know I’m never gonna be one of y’all. Don’t think I’ll ever want to be.” 

T'Challa debated - an honest answer? A diplomatic one? A kind one?

"I cannot say speak for my people on that matter," T'Challa said at last, because he was a diplomat to the end. "I know that I have forgiven you." Mostly. Some hurts would take a long time to heal, and he knew that. It was one of the reasons this ridiculous crush was so... well, ridiculous.

"Right," Erik said, and he made a face. "I'm gonna be walking around my whole life knowing everyone hates me."

"I do not think that most people know about you, if that is any comfort," said T'Challa, although he wasn't sure if that would be a comfort or not. He liked the idea of being able to go somewhere and not be known. The idea of just being a man had a great deal of appeal, even if he loved his country and his family, and was a king in his very bones. 

"What, that I'm nobody?" More of Erik's prickly anger, and T'Challa wanted to throw his hands up in frustration. It was worse than dealing with Shuri when she was feeling contrary. 

"The fact that you can just be a person in the crowd," said T'Challa. "True, you have an American accent, but you look like any number of Wakandans. If I saw you walking down the street, I would not look twice."

"As long as I kept my shirt on," Erik said, and then he gave a humorless laugh, more like the bark of a seal than the kind of noise that would come out of a human throat.

T'Challa didn't really have a response to that.

"I don't regret my past," Erik said sharply, and then his tone softened. "Regret implies that I would change it. I wouldn't. I know what I've done, I know what it's going to lead to."

T'Challa didn't say anything - he had studied various other cultural's views on the afterlife, and he knew that Erik's own beliefs were complicated. Coming from two different cultures - let alone living the life that Erik had - could lead to some personal internal conflicts. 

"But," Erik said, "I'm glad I did what I did." His hand went to one of his arms, running his fingers over the sleeve. The scar tissue underneath it was gnobbly - T'Challa had felt it a few times, brushing against Erik in close quarters, or when they sparred. 

Did Erik mean he was glad to have killed so many people? Or was he glad that he had scarred himself the way he did?

"Most people can hide the shit they did," Erik said, no doubt reading T'Challa's expression. Sometimes, T'Challa forgot just how much experience Erik had with dealing with people. Sure, he hadn't had diplomatic training, but... well. 

Learning things on the field... as it were. 

T’Challa nodded.

“I can never hide it,” said Erik, and then he laughed - there was slightly more humor in the sound this time, although it wasn’t exactly a friendly sort of humor. “I’m an open book, for anyone who can read.”

“Books were made to be read,” said T’Challa, and then he was kicking himself, because what did that even _mean_?!

Erik gave him a look that T’Challa didn’t understand, but he didn’t say anything else. T’Challa took that as a good sign, at least - it meant he probably hadn’t said anything _too_ stupid, right?

“It’s a good thing I’m not a book, then,” Erik said. 

T’Challa resisted the urge to point out that Erik had just called himself an open book, because nobody likes a pedant. 

“So tell me about Wakandan fast food,” Erik said, and that was a first. He looked like he was trying to keep the conversation going. 

“What would you like to know about it?” T’Challa leaned forward, and tried not to look too eager.

“What’s your favorite kind?” 

“Well,” said T’Challa. “It can be hard to pick a favorite.”

“What’s so hard about picking a favorite?” 

"Well," T'Challa said, and now he was getting a bit more comfortable. At least Erik didn't sound so hostile, "one cannot simply apply the topic of "favorite" when it comes to food, since different foods are suited for different moods."

"Different moods." Erik's voice was flat.

"When I am craving something sweet, I would not be satisfied with something salty," T'Challa said, and then he was blushing, because oh but that was an innuendo.

Erik snorted. "I can't imagine you ever going unsatisfied," he said, and then he stood up, rubbing his hands together. "But now I'm curious. Show me your favorites."

"Which kind of favorite?" T'Challa stood up as well, and resisted the urge to shove his hands in his pockets or fidget some other way. 

"The kind of favorite you think I'd like," said Erik.

T'Challa paused, trying to find a way to say what he was thinking delicately. Then he gave up, because if nothing else, Erik valued honesty. "I do not know your tastes that well," he he told Erik. "I would need a bit of an insight as to what it is that you like." 

"Well," said Erik, "to start with, I don't like sweet stuff."

_Evidently_ , T'Challa thought, but didn't say. "So what kind of stuff do you like?"

"I'll be really honest with you," said Erik. "I don't really treat food the way you seem to."

"What do you mean by that?" The two of them began to walk down the street, weaving in and out of the crowd. The Dora Milaje were a respectful distance behind them, and even as they walked, T'Challa could feel the way they were glaring at Erik - it was practically setting fire to the back of his own head. 

"I mean," Erik said, "I haven't exactly had a chance to indulge in all the fancy shit that you have." More bitterness.

"Ah," said T'Challa, because how was he supposed to respond to that.

"Y'all have it pretty easy around here," Erik continued, and now his face was taking on the familiar expression, something between a mocking smile and an angry snarl. 

T'Challa didn't say anything - what was he supposed to say? Apologize for the life he'd lived, for the prosperity of his home? He had done that. The whole nation was opening itself up, slowly. He was offering aid, he was trying to help, trying to be a better king than his father had been, trying to pay for the mistakes that his ancestors had made, the same way their ancestors had made. It was all a complicated, painful mess, and sometimes he wished that Erik could just _understand_ that. 

T'Challa knew that he was being unfair, even within the confines of his own head. It was.... complicated, to say the least, and some of it was no doubt frustration at the fact that Erik was so beautiful, and so frustrating. T'Challa resisted the urge to sigh and rub his forehead, and instead gave Erik what he hoped was a winning food.

"Would you like the cooks at the palace to make you some kind of Chicago pizza?" T'Challa said, after there had been silence for maybe three minutes. They were getting towards the edge of the marketplace now - Erik was walking, T'Challa was following.

"What, you can't have some flown in from Chicago?" Erik stopped in front of a stall that was selling small, blown glass animals. He squinted down at them, and then dug around in his pockets.

"I can pay for -" T'Challa began.

"No," Erik said sharply. "I got this." He began to speak to the man running the stall in rapid Xhosa, dickering for the price of something.

T'Challa kept his mouth shut, even though he wanted to argue, or possibly point out that even if the money came out of Erik's pockets, it was still T'Challa's. But that wasn't the point right now. When Erik had finished his dickering, he picked up a small glass antelope, the horns black and curving, the face more a suggestion in a curve of the glass. 

"I did not know you had an interest in blown glass," T'Challa said, as they began to wander through the more residential parts of the city. Erik was holding the antelope in one hand, his thumb running over the points of the horns, the bowed back. 

"I'm not," said Erik. "I just thought it looked cool." Then he shot T'Challa a sidelong look - a look that T'Challa might have even interpreted as flirty, in different circumstances. "So why can't you have pizza flown in from Chicago?"

"Well," said T'Challa, "as important as pizza is, I do not think I could authorize a plane being sent out just for it."

"Right," said Erik.

"More importantly," T'Challa said, "it is my understanding that pizza does not do well when it has to travel for long distances."

That startled a laugh out of Erik, which made T'Challa laugh as well. "You telling me y'all ain't even invented the technology to keep pizza fresh on the trip home?" 

“Not yet, no,” said T’Chall. “I will talk to Shuri about it. I’m sure she will invent some machine to keep pizza as fresh as it was out of the oven while you bring it home.”

“Of course she will,” said Erik. “She can do anything.” 

“That she can,” said T’Challa.

There was another few minutes of silence, as T’Challa tried to think of what to say next. What _was_ he going to say next? What was there to say in the first place?

"I wanna head back," Erik said, then; "thanks for letting me out."

"You're welcome," said T'Challa, and the two of them were very carefully not mentioning the fact that Erik was not allowed out unescorted. It wasn't like Erik to let a polite fiction just sit, and T'Challa could appreciate that.

"I do miss Chicago pizza," Erik said. "Good Chicago pizza, though. Not that Uno shit." He was running his fingers over the horns of the glass antelope, over and over again like a worry stone. 

T'Challa nodded, not really understanding the difference, but at least trying to be agreeable. "I shall keep that in mind," he said, because what else was he going to say? Although he was already getting an idea.

* * * 

T'Challa stood in the vast kitchens of the palace that he grew up in, and he frowned at the bowl in front of him. 

Shuri sat on the counter next to him, idly kicking her feet. Her expression was _gleeful_ , and he gritted his teeth. 

"The recipe says that there should be bubbles," said T'Challa. The mess in the bowl didn't have any bubbles - it was as stagnant as a puddle in July.

"Maybe you didn't add enough sugar," Shuri suggested. 

"It is pizza dough," T'Challa groused. "Why would I add more sugar? It is pizza dough. Pizza is not _sweet_." 

"You're not the one eating the sugar," said Shuri. "The yeast is." She leaned back, her head resting on the cabinets behind her.

"But I will be eating the yeast," said T'Challa.

"Have you never cooked before?" Shuri was still smirking. 

"I have," T'Challa said. "Many times."

"But somehow you cannot make pizza dough."

"Pizza dough is something made by specialists," T'Challa said, and he leaned back, trying not to glare at the bowl in front of him.

"So why are _you_ making it?" Shuri rested her elbow on her thigh, leaning forward, her chin in her hands. 

T'Challa's face grew hot, and he cleared his throat. "I thought that Erik might be homesick," he said. "For food from America. From the kind of American food that he has talked about in the past."

"And we can't exactly let the war criminal leave to go pick up a pizza," Shuri said. "That makes sense. Although there are plenty of chefs here who could make it. Probably better than you could."

"I am a perfectly fine cook," T'Challa told her, and he put some royal haughtiness in his tone, in hopes of holding on to some shred of his dignity. 

Shuri looked his dignity in the face and laughed, the way he knew she would. It was one of the universal constants. 

"That's why you put the yeast in cold water, genius," she said, her tone deadpan.

"What?"

"Yeast. It needs warm water in order to start bubbling. It should say as much on the recipe."

"Oh," said T'Challa. He hadn't used warm water - water was water, right?

... Alright , so he didn't have a whole bunch of experience with cooking. At least, non-Wakandan cooking. 

Shuri sighed, and it was a long suffering sigh. She hopped up off of the counter, and she grabbed the bowl. "I am going to state plainly that I think that this is a very bad idea," she told T'Challa, "but I am tired of you mooning around giving Erik puppy dog eyes. Better to get this over with quickly."

T'Challa opened his mouth to protest... and then closed it. He could get Shuri's help, or he could do this all night. "Since when do you know so much about cooking?" 

"Cooking is just chemistry," Shuri said, and she was putting things into a different bowl, then handing him a measuring cup. "Now go fill this with warm water. Not hot."

"Right," said T'Challa. Here, at least, he was on familiar ground. He'd been listening to Shuri since she had started talking. If she was willing to help him... well, who was he to complain?

* * *

With Shuri's help, T'Challa made pizza dough. It was a lot more labor intensive than he had thought it would be - he was using actual muscles to make the pizza. He'd seen chef's with intimidating muscles, but he had always assumed that most of that came from carrying things like heavy sacks of flour. Not just kneading dough.

Shuri mainly told him what do to - she didn't have much more cooking experience than he had, but she had done some kind of research into it. She was telling him that he needed to grease the pan, chop the onions, or properly stir the pasta sauce. 

When the whole mess of it was fresh and out of the oven, she turned to him, and now she was grinning wider. ”Now go bring it to him,” she told him. 

“What?” T’Challa was washing his hands, which still smelled strongly of garlic.

“Bring it to him,” she repeated. “To Erik. See if he appreciates it.” 

T’Challa rolled his eyes. “I do not think it would be appreciated,” he said.

“So why did you do it in the first place?” Shuri crossed her arms over her chest, giving him a Look.

“Because it is a kind thing to do,” T’Challa said firmly. “I do not think that Erik would appreciate me knocking on his door and offering him a pizza.”

“Fine,” Shuri said, and she grabbed a kitchen towel, wrapping her hands around it. “Then I will do it.”

“Wait, what?” 

“I will do it,” Shuri repeated, and she blithely picked up the heavy pan, beginning to make her wqay towards the entrance to the kitchen. 

“Shuri,” T’Challa said. “You -”

“I what?” She turned around, and the steam rising up from the pizza made her face look like she was looking at him from beyond the veil.

“I… I feel like this is a bad idea,” T’Challa said, trailing off weakly.

“You think all of my good ideas are bad,” Shuri said cheerfully, and then she was walking out of the room.

T’Challa leaned back, staring up at the ceiling, and he tried not to count all of the ways this could go wrong. 

* * *

Erik's expression was skeptical, when he opened the door. He looked at the pan in T'Challa's hands, he looked at T'Challa's face, then back at the pan. 

"Are you fuckin' kidding me?" Erik wasn't wearing a shirt, and T'Challa could see the raised ridges of all that scar tissue. He wanted to run his hands along it, his mouth. 

"I was thinking that perhaps, as you were saying you missed American -"

"You made me a pizza." Erik stepped aside, and that was practically a written invitation to come in.

"I did," T'Challa said, and he walked in, still holding the steaming plate. There was a table in the suite, and T'Challa set the pizza down carefully, trying not to think of how that would burn the wood. Well, it wasn't _too_ hot, right? 

"That was awfully nice of you," said Erik, and he crossed his arms, looking T'Challa up and down with a critical expression. "You look less kingly like this," he told T'Challa. 

"I do not think it's possible to look that kingly with flour in your hair," said T'Challa. He almost said _I think my father could have_ , but that... was not a thing to bring up around Erik. 

"I like it better," said Erik, and then he was stepping over, pressing himself against T'Challa, and that was unsettling, because usually Erik wasn't one for physical contact. But his broad chest was right up against T'Challa's own, and T'Challa could faintly feel the scar tissue poking him through the thin fabric of his shirt. 

"I am glad you like it," T'Challa said, lacking anything else to say. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything, but the silence was getting loud. So was the beating of his own heart, thundering in his ears. Erik's heart was beating as well, but it seemed to be a slow, steady rhythm - nothing like Erik's own panic. 

Erik took T'Challa's face in his hands, and Erik was painfully aware of what those hands could do. But they were on T'Challa's face, Erik's thumbs against his cheekbones, Erik's eyes staring into his own. He didn't see anything but his own reflection in Erik's eyes, and then his reflection was distorted, because Erik was leaning in - Erik was kissing him. 

It took him a minute to really comprehend that - he was being kissed by Erik. Erik's mouth was against his own, and it tasted like toothpaste and like himself. His tongue was bossy, shoving its way into T'Challa's mouth, and T'Challa met it with his own tongue. His hands were on Eriks' shoulders now, running down Erik's arms. He would have laced their fingers together - Nakia liked that - but he had a feeling Erik wouldn't go in for that sort of thing. 

Or maybe T'Challa wasn't really ready for that. It was one thing to lust after someone who had hurt you, to want to be intimate with them. But there was intimate and there was _intimate_. 

Erik pulled back, his expression hard to read. He was always hard to read, but T'Challa had always loved learning new languages. 

... Even in T'Challa's head, he knew that was a stretch for the metaphor, but he couldn't find it in himself to care, because all he wanted to do was get on his knees right now. It was an almost visceral _craving_ , and he wasn't expecting that. T'Challa wanted, and he knew that - to be a human being was to want. But he didn't usually want like this. 

"I want to make you happy," T'Challa said, and then he winced internally, because that was a hackneyed, but also the only way he could explain it.

"So you... what, are offering me head and a pizza?" Erik looked skeptical. Then again, T'Challa sometimes wondered if Erik had any other setting. Skeptical, murderous, otherwise... nothing. 

"It does not have to be head," said T'Challa, because that was simpler than going into his own complicated headspace. How to 

"Are you expecting this because you're the king or some shit like that?" 

"No," T'Challa said, and he meant it. "It is merely something I want to do." 

"Why do you want to do it?" Erik took a step back, and T'Challa already missed the warmth.

"Because you are a very attractive individual," T'Challa said, which was true, "and because we have a connection, even if it is a complicated one."

Erik snorted. He didn't look won over, but he didn't look... not won over, either. Did T'Challa want to win him over in the first place? Even he wasn't sure at this point. 

“If you would rather I leave -”

And then Erik’s hand was on T’Challa’s wrist.

“I didn’t say that,” said Erik. He looked… embarrassed, inasmuch as he ever did. 

One of T’Challa’s hands went up, to Erik’s face. He thumbed Erik’s cheekbone, and he stepped closer, pressing their foreheads together - he kissed Erik’s mouth, and his hands were delicate as they traced across the raised, ridged scar tissue. It was tough under his fingertips, and Erik sighed against him. 

Each scar was a life, and it was also a part of Erik’s body - T’Challa let his hands roam, studying the topographical map of Erik’s arms, across Erik’s chest. Erik was panting against him, his skin shivering, the rest of him almost completely still. His hands moved to T’Challa’s hips, and they just… stayed there. 

_He could kill me like this, without much effort_ , thought T’Challa, and that was a complicated thought. 

He rested his hands on Erik’s chest, marveling at the contrast in textures. He squeezed, gently, and then Erik was pulling back, letting go. 

“I think I’m gonna turn in,” he said, and he rubbed his hands across his own arms, as if he was trying to shake off the feeling of being touched.

T’Challa tried not to take it too personally, although it did still feel like a bit of a punch to the stomach.

“Right,” T’Challa said. “Of course. Sleep well.”

Erik gave him a look that could almost be described as… sympathetic. “Tomorrow,” he told T’Challa, “I’ll tell you about the pizza.” 

“Thank you,” said T’Challa, and he tried not to grin too broadly. 

So maybe this wasn’t exactly the… normal way of going about this sort of thing. Then again, nothing else in his life was normal, so why start now?


End file.
